Playa Hater’s Fall: 10 Things I Hate About You, Indiana
(*Author’s note: this is intended to be a recurring, spiteful, vitriolic, and — above all else — hateful take on Nebraska’s upcoming opponent for the week.)
1. I hate your devil’s pitchfork looking ass logo that you all have slapped on your helmets like you’re advertising your 6.9 million person, Midwestern satanic cult.
I hate that I can’t decide whether it looks more like a trident from the 36th live-action Disney cash-grab remake of The Little Mermaid or if it looks more like the talking French candelabra from the 34th live-action Disney cash grab remake of that movie — you know, the one where the girl ends up wanting to bang it out with a buffalo-moose monster hybrid? That one.
2. I hate that your head coach always looks like he’s trying incredibly hard not to wet fart in the middle of an important meeting. He’s got a medically diagnosable case of the rare but debilitating disease known as RSF: resting shart face.
3. I hate that you have two quarterbacks who both sound like they’re adult film stars. Michael Penix and Peyton Ramsey. I hate that I’ll be struggling with my inner 13-year-old to not make repeated references to “kicking Indiana right in the Penix” or how annoying it will be to have to stop myself from shouting out, “What we need right now, is a Penix pick!”
4. I hate Whop Philyor. Not because I don’t like him, but because I’m severely jealous of his cool-ass name and the fact that only a dope athlete could be named after his love of the Whopper (*Author’s note: this is not a joke).
Think about if I, a fat, short white dude who runs a 6.99 40-yard dash time tried to tell people that I was “Whop” and that this was because of my undying love of a fast food chain. Suddenly, that’s not cool. At all.
5. I hate the fact that one of the first “luminaries” listed on your distinguished alumni page is this creepy MF:
That’s David Starr Jordan and he was a brilliant scientist and leading mind of his generation. And he was also super, duper, down with Eugenics. You know, that thing where people were forced-sterilized based on their being “less desirable”. The movement eventually crash-landed directly into Nazi Germany where Hitler and his ghoulish monsters saw it and were like, “seems pretty chill. Let’s do lots of this.” While all universities have psychos who used to go there, I definitely learned to hate this guy within, like, 3 sentences of his Wikipedia page.
6. I hate that your state is basically just a Mullet that’s turned 90 degrees. Business in the north, party in the south. Which sounds super dirty.
7. I hate the fact that your school is responsible for Joe Buck and Lee Corso. That’s my own personal version of a sportscasting Scar and Mufasa. Corso is America’s kooky, hilarious old uncle who shows up in a Hawaiian shirt for Thanksgiving with, like, 6 bottles of cheap red wine and immediately starts telling you really hilarious stories about a time your Dad did something stupid.
Joe Buck is your over-achieving other uncle, who keeps getting invited by default, and is always sitting there in his sweatervest-with-the-dress-shirt-under-it and his glasses on the end of his nose trying to talk loudly about NASDAQ or trading futures and refuses to let his too-young girlfriend have more than a glass of white wine.
8. I hate that you guys play football in a stadium that’s also called Memorial Stadium, even though it’s really just an off-brand store-created knockoff. Your home field is the Diet Mountain Drive of Memorial Stadiums. It’s the Dr. Shasta of Memorial Stadiums.
9. I hate that I have no idea how good you are at football this year. None. I have negative idea how good you might be. Statistically? You look pretty damn solid. You’re 25th nationally in yards per game allowed and you’re averaging 433 yards per game, offensively. Both of those are — well, let’s just say they’re significantly better than Nebraska. But all of your wins have come against teams with a combined record of poop emoji and you’ve lost against any teams that have any kind of pedigree.
Which, quite frankly seems very familiar.
10. I hate that I also don’t have any idea if we’re going to beat you. Which is edge-of-my-seat, spine-fracturing-chills, pants-poopingly terrifying; that I’m unsure if we can beat Indiana(?!?!?!?) in a game of football. In 2019. At home. No need for AMC’s Fearfest (*Author’s note: the #GOAT in Halloween broadcasting). I’ll be scared enough, sitting in the stadium this Saturday screaming until my lungs are ready to pop like some whale-murdering red balloons.
